Give and Take
by gilgameshforeternity
Summary: Sherlock is a repo man and John has some overdue parts. Sherlock/John, warnings inside. Rated M for slash.


warnings: Repo men crossover, light bondage, biting and slight non-con

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><p>"We can't keep meeting like this John."<p>

It's dim, save the light of a lamp on the desk across the room; underneath it lays the book he had been trying to read but gave up on a few hours ago. It casts shadows along the man standing in the middle of John's room. He hadn't meant for this to happen, honestly, the first two times had been out of his control and now laying in his bed at home, three months overdue John wondered what had taken so long. The clock read 3 am, just like the last two times, just like every night after he'd received the letter in the mail indicating how long he had before they could legally come reclaim the artiforg in his shoulder and knee. Everything used to be just fine, the army had been helpful for the first artiforg and then a sniper crossed his path one day. The damage done to his shoulder meant down time and the army didn't wait for him to get better. Why wait when there was someone else, ready and willing and less artificial to take his place? One by one he fell behind on his payments and the compensation from the army just wasn't cutting it.

Rolling over, John finally acknowledged the man's presence, "Hello Sherlock."

Tall, statuesque and a tad bit underweight, his angel of death stood before him. Their first meeting hadn't been quiet so blasé. Back then, John barely slept, roaming the apartment in restless anxiety. At 3 in the morning John had still been awake and while Sherlock was exceptionally good at what he did, John was anything but an average citizen, he was a survivor. The artiforg in his knee had gone past its due date and there was no way in hell he was just going to lie down and bleed to death on the floor. No, fighting back was in his nature, so that was what he did, he fought with every fiber of his being before shocking Sherlock with his own stun pistol and escaping.

"Are you going to cooperate this time? You seem tired, have you been waiting very long?"

He watched Sherlock set the black case down on the floor, like maybe they were just going to have a chat like good reasonable people and everything would be just fine. Unlikely. There was a morbid elegance he found in the man, all long limbs and high cheek bones. Curly, black hair swept around his face and a long, pale neck revealed itself as the man shrugged out of his long coat and scarf. Yes, wouldn't want to get blood those now would we?

Just looking at the man lit a fire back in his exhausted body. The months hadn't been kind to John and dark bags hung under his eyes in telltale fashion that sleep did not come easy to him anymore. Between nightmares and anxious waiting, he scarcely remembered what it was like to sleep through the whole night. It was exactly the same after their second meeting. He'd barely escaped that time, and received a nasty gash for his troubles, he still limped. It was then he enlisted in the army for as long as they would take him.

"All night."

A soft snort and John sat up finally as the muscles in his body began to tense. Sherlock had opened the case before looking up at him with ghostly pale eyes, his hands working inside of it without him looking. In the light of the lamp he looked translucent, like a mirage and John wished it was all a dream. He just didn't want to die, not this way at least.

Sherlock stood again, his head tilting to the side and John could see the Union tattoo on the side of his neck, five bars indicating he was very good at what he did, "Your family won't even know I took the artiforgs from your body you know and they'll cover it up and say it was natural causes."

He wandered forward and John found himself drinking in the way he moved, he was like a cat stalking its prey. Too fast and he'd scare it away, too slow and the prey might have the time to realize it was being hunted. It had to be just right and suddenly the man was right next to his bed and he had to crane his neck to look up at him. Damn, he was off his game.

The second he saw Sherlock's hand move John sprung, yanking the blanket up to trap the man's wrist, he could see the needle of syringe jutting through the fabric, it was enough to kick his actions into high gear. Thrusting up he caught Sherlock in the stomach with his shoulder and the man latched onto the back of his shirt collar. Staggering back Sherlock grunted as he both tried to choke the man into unconsciousness and stay upright. Although, there was still one hand unaccounted for and John grabbed the back of the repo man's calf, yanking it out from under him as he pushed off the bed. Together they tumbled onto the floor, dragging the blankets with them and John had enough mind to push the black case away from them.

Sherlock didn't take kindly to his jobs fighting back. Two times fighting this man had been enough to both evaluate and pick apart John's specific form of fighting. His record in the military had been easy enough to access, the army doctor was good with hand to hand combat, obviously out weighing Sherlock but that didn't count a lick for experience. John was trying to wrestling the syringe from his hand and while it was charming to watch the way his face screwed up in concentration and the muscles in his arms flex, he wasn't here to wrestle about. Instantly he had a hand around John's throat, his long fingers doing wonders to hold on tight and the tables turned quicker than his target could keep up with.

Using John's panic to his advantage Sherlock flipped them, adding his weight to the ferocity of his grip and blunt finger nails scratched at his arm while strong legs scrabbled on either side of his thighs. It was only out of pure experimentation did he let up a little, feeling the way John almost choked on the ragged breath that vibrated through his throat. It would be so easy to just crush the man's windpipe and finish the job. But where was the fun in that?

"Now, now John, you know perfectly well what I am capable of," untangling his hand from the sheet he hovered the needle by John's right thigh and watched in amusement as blue eyes went wide.

Carefully, without pushing on the handle of the syringe he delved the point through thin fabric and tan skin. The body below him jerked and John sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. Applying more pressure to the windpipe elicited more clawing at his arm and he watched for a moment. John's face was so expressive, his emotions were quick to show themselves, each so different and telling than the last.

If this was hell, John prayed he might be forgiven right then and there because Sherlock was like a dark, ridiculously gorgeous demon, and now he was paying him back for all the bad things he'd done in his life. The pain in his thigh was sharp and with no warning he was able to breathe again, the hand around his neck had stopped crushing, but hadn't moved. His lungs seized and he coughed through the task of getting his breath back, he noted with disdain that Sherlock was still watching him with some sort of fascination and the crinkle at the edge of his eyes might have been amusement. John took a shaky breath, his whole body shook, he was exhausted from what little sleep he'd managed to get and falling unconscious sounded kind of good actually, if it weren't for the fact the side of his face exploded with pain seconds later.

He looked up at Sherlock almost in disbelief, the man had slapped him! What the hell. Narrowed, intelligent eyes expressed a sharp disapproval of his nodding off and John took another heaving breath as he lay below the repo man. Bedraggled with the fight bleeding out of him faster than he can register the fact Sherlock's fingers were caressing his exposed throat. There would be bruises there tomorrow…if he lived that long. Again, the needle in his thigh twitched and John forced himself to still, being choked was bad enough, he didn't need a sharp instrument nicking something inside of him he couldn't outwardly fix. His eyes flicked down and his heart gave a painful thud against the inside of his chest as he watched Sherlock's thumb descend on the back of the syringe, pushing half of the drug into his body. It felt strange to have the liquid invading his system, it tingled under the surface and he felt rush up the side of his thigh, it wouldn't take long before it coursed through his body.

Sherlock continued to watch, he'd only given John half the knockout drug, it would leave him pliable and about as frightening as a new born kitten. If anything, this job, laid out in front of him looking a mess of skewed clothes and tired eyes was more important than any other job he'd taken. John was something else, John wasn't like any of those other blubbering clients who begged and pleaded for more time , no John was alive. John had seen behind the curtain and knew exactly what the Union tried to do to people who couldn't pay, he was privileged in a way. Tossing the syringe away Sherlock rubbed a thumb over the puncture wound, easing the pain with the soft caress.

"John, I'm going give you a choice," he looked thoughtful, "I can take your artiforgs or," John felt a shiver run through his body, he could feel the warmth of Sherlock's thumb through the fabric of his pants, "you can give them to me."

A dry, skeptical laugh erupted from John's abused throat and he coughed through the rest of it before falling quiet. Sherlock was still watching him, waiting and John closed his eyes exhaling through his nose. How long was he willing to do this? Running and sleeping only when complete exhaustion took his body, living in fear that one day if The Union didn't get him something else probably would. He was in debt, loans were a nasty business and Harry wasn't much help, he was tired, so very tired. The drug in his body weighed heavily on his nerves, made him take a long indulgent breath because air was important and he needed air like he needed a miracle right about then.

Opening his eyes he finally replied, "Fine...you can have them."

Something flashed through Sherlock's eyes in the dim light of the room and John felt it strike through his heart, what had he done? The hand on his neck disappeared and John swallowed thickly as Sherlock made quick work of wrapping the blanket from the floor around his wrists before pulling them together and tying it off in a thick knot. Okay maybe this guy was rather smart, John probably would have tried to catch him off guard, slug him good across the face and hopefully knock him out. He resisted shouting out as hands started tugging his sleeping pants off.

Tipping his head back John scrunched his eyes closed as he waited for the initial cut that would open his knee and reveal the overdue joint. It didn't come though, minutes passed and John risked looking down and felt heat rise hot and quick to his face. Sherlock was just staring at him, the subtle shift of the man's eyelashes indicated he wasn't just looking at John's face anymore, no they were raking down his exposed legs and being in just his boxers made for an embarrassing sight on his part.

He wanted to say something, hurry the man along but it caught in the back of his throat when the repo man leaned down, his face coming exceptionally close to the faint scar on the side of his knee, exactly where Sherlock had cut him the last time before he escaped. Their meeting had been too close for comfort and the wound still ached in the middle of the night when his thoughts wandered while he waited.

"I see you've been taking care of this, good."

John wanted to say that he was a doctor, he knew better and right about the time he opened his mouth to inform the man of his qualifications, Sherlock closed the two inch gap and placed his lips on the tender flesh. His voice came out in a surprised whine and he saw Sherlock's eyes flash up to look at him from underneath dark lashes, he forgot what he was going to say. The next thing to come out of his mouth was a hiss as the repo man pressed the flat of his tongue to the wound and licked along the length of it. It was wet and too hot and his leg jolted from the shock of it, his breath coming a little quicker as confusion and worry started to swirl around inside his chest.

"Seeing my handiwork on you is rather pleasing," Sherlock murmured against John's skin before licking back down the other way and this time his target was actually able to articulate words.

"Stop it, just do it already!"

This was becoming something John wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of. The instinct to flee was over whelming, his heart beat out a rhythm of panic but his body felt useless, his limbs heavy and thick. A light nip to the sensitive skin made John tug his hips back, effectively pulling most of his leg away from Sherlock's face, but the repo man wasn't so easily deterred. Long, warm hands wrapped around his hips and he was tugged across the carpet, his shirt pulling up a few inches to reveal the muscles in his stomach as they bunched and quivered. John clenched his fists as he watched Sherlock looking him over with something akin to irritation.

"John, have you forgotten so quickly?"

"Wh-what?"

"You gave me your artiforgs-"

"Yes, now just take them, be done with me already."

Another bite, stronger this time and John yelped, he wanted to kick and struggle but the twitchy movements Sherlock had dragged out of his body left him tired and breathing hard.

"I don't think you quite understand what you've agreed to John. These artiforgs," a hand came up to squeeze at his right knee where the first artiforg lay nestled beneath skin and blood, "are a part of your body and now you've given them to me. You've given your body to me John."

"What? No, don't twist words around!"

He watched as Sherlock gave a long sigh, as if he was being stupid for even trying to argue and laid his cheek along John's thigh. A quirked eyebrow indicated Sherlock was waiting for more. His mind tried to work overtime, the haze of the drug filtered between his thoughts, made it hard to connect things together, it was a full minute of his mouth hanging open before anything actually came out of it.

"I-isn't this illegal or something? Don't you guys have rules against this?"

There wasn't an immediate reply, he looked in thought, as if the answer to that question was one that needed time to be processed and made understandable to the common man. John waited and tried to breathe evenly as Sherlock stroked trimmed nails over his knee and breathed over his thigh. Goosebumps rose on his skin as each breath tickled the light hair there. Staring at the man he noted how his eye color seemed to change, pale gray to light green, were they modifications? Or did his eyes really shift in the lightening? How strange.

"Well?"

"Well what? I've decided we're done talking about the subject."

Oh he was a right git and John wanted to yell and thrash and punch his face in, if only to have the pleasure of seeing him bleed. Though Sherlock didn't seem at all scared of the angry look on his face and proceeded to latch his mouth back onto the wound. Twitching John gasped out and his eyebrows knit together, the scrape of teeth on his knee was too much, no one had ever done that to him, it didn't exactly hurt, it was just…different. The hand around his knee tightened and yanked down and suddenly he felt all too exposed before his angel of death.

Hot breath ghosted over his knee, was it time? How was going to do it? Would he at least knock him out for the extraction, or would he be cruel and do it while John was still awake and able to scream? No, it was more teeth, more tongue over the scar he knew was there and why was this happening to him, why did he have to be the one to get the questionable repo man who seemed to have a fetish for his wounds? It didn't help that the man's fingers were stroking and scratching at his thighs as if trying to sooth the shaking muscles and John tried to breathe regularly. All of it felt too intimate, the licking, the biting and caressing, he felt dizzy and the drug was still tugging him down, weighing him into the carpet and trapping his body in invisible bonds.

He felt the man move and then John was staring right up into Sherlock's eyes and fingers were working their way under his shirt, they pulled it up and he spluttered and shook his head as it dragged over his face. The shirt became stuck over his tied hands and John knew what was coming next. Instinctive he tried to drag his arms down, but a hand came up to press the mess of fabric into the floor. He breathed in quietly as the man hovered over him on long arms, he could feel the heat radiating off of Sherlock's body and it wasn't long before the repo man settled over him. John had the distinct feeling that he should resist, that this wasn't right, but now there was a warm body weighing him down over the drug's hold, pressing them flush from hips to chest and that hot mouth was back, mouthing at the knot of flesh where he'd been shot.

A noise somewhere between a moan and a grunt tumbled from his lips as Sherlock teethed and sucked at it. He knew it shouldn't feel like this, but his body felt hot and something fluttered down his spine to settle in his groin when he felt Sherlock's thighs wedge under his, hiking his legs up. John breathed deeply as Sherlock moved on from the scar, nipping along his shoulder to his sore throat, the areas where the man's hand had gripped throbbed in time with his fluttering heartbeat. It was one thing to have a mouth on his scar, he mostly just felt pressure, no real sensation, but it was another to have a hot tongue at his neck and teeth teasing the flesh. With eyes screwed shut John tried to focused on anything but what was happening to him, except Sherlock gave a particularly harsh bite and he gasped, body moving against the repo man's and then there was slow, rough grind of Sherlock's hips into his own and he groaned.

"Christ," his voice sounded so broken, "what the fuck are you doing?"

"Be quiet."

There was nothing right about how his body betrayed his mind and John knew for a fact all this attention was winding up inside him, simmering just below the surface of his control, which was quickly dissolving as Sherlock's grinding became rougher. Turning his head John tried to stifle another groan that fell from his lips, it felt good to have another body against him, and the mouth currently teething at the edge of his jaw wasn't helping him to say no to the way Sherlock was reclaiming his artiforgs.

The sensations were just enough to keep him wanting more but not enough to reciprocate, he was only half-hard from what resistance he could put up and all too quickly the heat was gone and cold air rushed in between them as Sherlock lifted up and away. An audible breath passed his lips and his eyes snapped open the second he felt his underwear tugged down to his thighs and he was exposed. His chest constricted when he looked at Sherlock, the man was studying him like a specimen to be cataloged then dissected.

His whole body seized when he saw Sherlock reach for him, pushing at the carpet with his feet he tried to get out of reach, except the hand latched onto the fabric constricting his thighs and gave it a harsh tug, pulling it completely from his body with his unwilling help. He saw the smug smirk cross Sherlock's lips before those dangerous hands clasped his hips and dragged him back. This was so bad, so very bad and the way Sherlock looked at him was both confusing and intriguing and John couldn't understand just what the fuck his body was doing. Again, the repo man reached out and a shudder wrecked its way down his spine as long fingers nestled and teased at the thatch of hair around his penis.

"Sh-sherlock, no, no-"

"I'm not going to hurt you John."

That voice reverberated through his nerves and he couldn't hold back the moan that escaped his lips when Sherlock's hand wrapped around him. Long, languid strokes brought him to full hardness and John was barely able to stop his hips from trying to push up into that wonderful hand. What he really wanted to do, aside from laying there like a rag doll was to curl in on himself, shield his body from the man and hide, because this was wrong and he knew it, they both knew it. A low chuckle sounded over him and he tried not to think of just how he looked at the moment, splayed out on his bedroom floor, hands tied up and body just barely behaving.

"No John, I'm going to do something we'll both like," he heard Sherlock muse quietly and the hand was gone.

He was just barely able to catch his breath, clear some of the fog in his brain and watch as Sherlock leaned his impossible tall frame over to dig through the case he'd pushed away earlier. The words the man had spoken sounded like a promise and John closed his eyes, how had his life come to this, running from a corporation that sent its dogs out to catch wayward customers like wandering sheep. Once again Sherlock was over him, bearing down on him with weight that didn't seem feasible with his slim frame and John choked out a gasp when he felt something cold and slick touch somewhere he hadn't been touched in a long time. He could feel the tight press of Sherlock's erection on his hip and John didn't have to be told where this was going. A slippery finger teased around his entrance and his legs instinctively tried to clamp shut, except they caught on Sherlock's body and there was nothing he could do as it eased inside him.

"N-no, Sherlock you can't, you ca-"

The reply was right next to his ear, low and hot and sinful, "Shh, John, this is so much better than being sliced up for your overdue parts, isn't it? You even get to live when I'm done with you."

John shuddered as Sherlock nuzzled at his neck, he wasn't going to reply to that, he couldn't, not when the finger inside him wriggled and stroked and his whole body jolted as if shocked when it found his prostate. He moaned low and broken and felt Sherlock humming right alongside him as if pleased by his reaction; he did it again and again till John's hips were squirming, fighting to get at the finger and rubbing up against Sherlock's thigh. God he hated that he wanted more and a groan escaped him when another finger worked its way into him, his head tipped back, he flexed his arms and tried not to think of the burn. Sherlock was going to fuck him and all because he had a moment of weakness, there was no turning back now.

Before John could even think of trying to redeem himself, or even try to make one last made dash at an escape, the fingers pulled away and Sherlock disappeared from on top of him. He looked up in time to watch as Sherlock freed his cock from his pants, oh Christ it was happening and in the back of his mind he heard that little voice nagging at him to hurry up and kick the guy in the crotch, incapacitate him anyway you can. The little voice was smothered the moment he looked up into Sherlock's eyes, the man had a knowing smile that said 'go ahead, see what happens'. He didn't move and he saw the way pale blue eyes raked over his body before he was being penetrated. The feel of fabric dragging across his skin was light and wistful as the repo man leaned over, clutching his hips as he pushed in. It was slow and it hurt, just barely enough lube for that first painful push and John felt his breath become heavy, his insides burned, Sherlock was bigger than he looked in the dim light and when he bottomed out, pressed all the way inside he let out a wavering cry.

Hands trailed up his sides before latching onto his biceps and tugging his arms up, he groaned at the change in position, his shoulder ached and he realized Sherlock had brought his hands up to rest around the man's pale neck. He couldn't see Sherlock's face buried in the side of his neck and then the man moved, his hips pulling back, sliding out just part of the way before easing back in and John clutched his hands in the fabric of his bindings. Being impaled while under the thick fog of compliance felt strange, it felt like his body was no longer his and he couldn't do more than grunt when filled and try to breathe when emptied.

It started slow while Sherlock paid attention to his scar, thrusting sat on the back burner for the time being and John floated in the sensation of it. Time passed without him even realizing and with no warning Sherlock's hips just snapped forward and John's back arched. Eyes squeezed shut he heard the way his breath hitched and the moan at the back of his throat pitched higher. That was all the time he got before the hands on his hips gripped tighter and he was being dragged into Sherlock's lap as the man thrust into him, catching his prostate just right and his legs clenched tight.

That hot mouth was back on his neck; biting and he distinctly heard a deep growl work its way past Sherlock's lips and straight to his groin. His cock was trapped between them, it rubbed against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt and the friction was just right to milk out drops of precome that smeared across the man's clothing.

"O-oh fuck," he couldn't stop what came out of his mouth, the breathy moans and somewhere in his mind he knew he shouldn't be egging the man on but he was already in the thick of it now. Just a little more, and he groaned and he gasped loud as the punishing thrusts almost turned painful, they were only saved by the glorious drag of Sherlock's cock on his prostate and John felt his body winding tighter.

His whole world contracted down to the size his room, it filled up with low grunts and dull sound of flesh and cloth colliding with one another and John squeezed his eyes shut, because his whole world was about to come unhinged if Sherlock kept moving like that. His legs clamped tight over the man's hips and he cried out, his body seizing as orgasm struck through him and it only seemed to spur Sherlock on, pushing through the tightness of his body till finally he felt the man over him jerk to stop and spill over inside of him. A deep moan vibrated along the side of his neck and John felt the grip on his hips loosen a bit.

Together their chests labored for breath, bumping into one another's before Sherlock tugged John's hand from around his neck and pulled out of the man's body. A tired groan escaped from John's lips and he watched as Sherlock tucked himself away, grimaced at the mess on his shirt before getting up. It barely mattered at the moment what the repo man was doing, his body was filled to the brim with a misty pleasurable feeling. Quietly, with precise movements Sherlock cleaned what he could off of his shirt, closed his case and shrugged on his coat and scarf.

John stared up at him from where he lay on the floor, the man looked torn, his eyes flicked to the door then back to John, raking over his appearance before finally settling on the door.

"I'll be back John, but not for your artiforgs."

With that he watched the man disappear from sight, leaving John to disentangle his hands slowly, covering his body with the blanket before falling asleep on the uncomfortable carpet alone.


End file.
